


Knighthood

by anachron (CypherAnachem)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Anal Sex, Incest, M/M, References to Drugs, Reincarnation, droneseason2020, mythologystuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypherAnachem/pseuds/anachron
Summary: An evening in the life, like many others that came before, and many that will come after.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Dirk Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20
Collections: Drone Season 2020





	Knighthood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMockingCrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMockingCrows/gifts).



There were eight of you, at the very beginning, and there were eight of you for as long as you could remember. Kings and Queens of daylight, Empresses and Emperors of the night, all with their own domains and desires. Though it was rare you all would meet (and when you did, the whole world watched in awe), you were all on good terms, and all understood your purpose: guiding the planet from afar, and ensuring Creation continued on.

Though you all accepted it, you didn’t all adhere to it. One of you preferred the skies, as free and wild as the day was long, and kept to his initial duty, life after life after life. You and the other six weren’t satisfied with keeping to yourselves. Mortals were an interesting bunch, and there were more of them than there were of you. You weren’t sure what the royalty of daylight were up to in this life, but your sisters always found a way to weave themselves into the planet’s history. You heard one’s name for nearly a century, a novelist during one of her lifetimes and her own dubiously-credible historian during another. The other, though she kept to the shadows, pushed and pulled the whims of nations, and you could always tell when she was at work when a country’s laws turned more laissez-faire.

You kept to yourself, for the most part. Though you knew the world had a path in mind, and you made sure that everything happened when and where it was supposed to… you had to admit, mortals knew how to cut a beat. You spent most of your lives as a musician of some sort, finding out what new and exciting tech they cobbled together to bring a song to the masses. In this life, you were a DJ, and you used tracks you yourself made in a previous incarnation to better serve your current craft. You hid pure red eyes behind tinted glass, and kept a red hood over messy hair as pale as moonlight. You focused on your screen, and on your turntables.

Tonight, you were fortunate, as the Witch had carried out her duties for the morning, leaving you with absolutely nothing to clean up afterward. You live for the night. You live for the communion. With their own miniature moons beaming their artificial rays down on the crowd, their bodies pressed against and dancing about each other, flowing like the tides. Smoke and soporificas and sex hit your nose; you take a deep breath, and nod to the beat. It’s the pounding pulse of your congregation, a sound you’ve come to love, dearly. You play your melodies off mortal heartstrings, a symphony to serenade the night. You lose yourself, as you have time and time again. You nearly don’t notice the footsteps behind you, and you don’t make a move until you’re in the middle of the third song of the set.

You turn, and see the Prince staring back at you. Your brother, your confidant, your driving force, like you but sharper, angular, sinew to your substance. Golden eyes watch you from behind glasses as sharp as his styled hair. Even in the stuttering shadows, you can tell what he’s wearing: a black top and some rougher pantaloons on his legs.

His visits weren’t as frequent as they once had been, but each moment spent together was made more precious for it. When he arrived, your spirit soared. When he departed, it was like waking from a dream. Tonight would be no different. Whereas the rest of you occluded your divinity (and even your own selves) from everyone around you, the Prince simply was. You were the moon as it sailed across the night sky, sworn to guide and tug and lay a path out for those below; for better or worse, he was the night itself, the immutable, discomforting, but ever-present darkness that you were set against.

No one down below notices you, obscured by your speakers and tools of the trade. Your technician definitely does, and he seems upset at your guest’s appearance seemingly out of thin air. You tell him to relax, that he’s overreacting, that now would be a good time for him to make his debut like he’s been musing over for years. The two of you have never spoken a word about the last part, but he seems to take it well. He takes your headphones, you take your guest’s hand. As drum and bass fills the air, you and the Prince escape to the rooftops, still feeling the beat rolling through your bodies.

You stare up into the sky. It doesn’t change much in your decade-to-decade, but it’s still beautiful. The Prince lies beside you, in the other direction, his head next to yours. You catch up. In this life, he tried writing (like your sister), but he eventually grew disenchanted with it. Thus, like the others, he went behind the scenes, and guided his followers from afar. You scoff, but understand. You tell him about your rise to stardom this time around, and even your new stage name: turntechGodhead. 

He tries to hide the smirk that pulls at his mouth. “You aren’t even trying.”

“Neither are you. I read your shit. My flow’s much better than that.” 

It’s quiet for a long minute, before you both start squawking like birds. The world falls away from you in that moment, and it’s just you, and him, and the night sky above, and you feel almost dizzy with ecstasy as you take him in again. He’s wiping his eyes, glasses off his face. When he looks back up to you, you’ve already leaned in to meet his lips. 

When you try to pull away, the Prince kisses back, and slides in closer. His hand finds yours on the concrete. Your heads tilt. You don’t remember when you took off your glasses. You do remember when you start pulling your clothes off, and the feeling of his skin under your fingertips. His legs capture yours, his hips force you against the rooftop. Beneath the Prince, you surrender. The denim and cotton that separate you are cast aside in kind, leaving you naked against the cool, still air. 

Your communion is broken, once more, as he reaches for something in his pockets. He draws out a small bottle. Rough fingers trace along your goosebumps as he flips open the top. Its contents are drizzled between your legs, and worked over his shaft. Fingers slide inside you, and your legs wrap around his hips. Your face feels warm. 

It’s not long before you’re loosened up and worked into a squirming mess. The Prince laughs. One of those troublesome hands cups your face as he slides inside, and that cocksure smile melts away into his own look of bliss. He thrusts. Your hands hold his shoulders, gripping tighter and tighter each time his hips meet yours. 

You missed this, this simple, uncomplicated bliss, his breath against your neck, his lip between your teeth. His back is your canvas, and you paint narrow streaks of pale red across it to create temporary masterpieces. You shout, and he moans, a symphony for just the two of you. Together you rise like the tides, and fall just the same. The Prince will ensure his True Name leaves your lips more than once. You love him. He loves you.

“How long has it been?” The Prince asks, his teeth grazing your neck. 

“Too long,” you reply, and this is always true. Even a second outside his presence is an eternity. His absence is a grave sin. Something unspoken, something unspeakable, is always missing when he is gone. 

Your fingers lock with his, and you count how long your hands stay together. You join as one, and stay as one, and remain as one. It’s long after you change positions, and after he finishes adorning your neck with a collar of bruises. The cold of the night slowly seeps away, his warmth sinking toward your core. Even as the stars fade from the sky, and the moon begins to sink, he stays with you, holding you, combing through your hair, mapping out your whole body with as much of himself as possible.

It’s too soon, but it is inevitable. You share another kiss, and stare at each other for a long time. You say nothing. What more can be said? Instead, his fingers slide away from your clinging grasp like water falling to the sea. When he turns, he doesn’t look back. You’ve done the same, in the past—it would simply be a reminder of what you both would miss. 

The music from downstairs has already turned to silence, your adherents dispersed into the city, still intoxicated, still euphoric. It will soon be time for the Maid to clean up your “mess”, and she’ll have many a word with you, but such is the way of the dawn. You watch the Prince as he heads to the service door, shirt and pants bundled under his arm, disappearing from your sight with a few more steps. You sigh. 

You lie out beneath the fading night sky, alone with your thoughts. You close your eyes.

Tomorrow is a new night.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of Drone Season 2020.  
> Hope you enjoy!  
> Might revisit this idea and versions of the characters in the near future.
> 
> shoutouts to my beta readers, you helped me out a lot.


End file.
